Flowers: The Cornerstone of Romantic Gestures
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Maxon keeps up a secret project for the Elite that America isn't allowed to know about: features a romantic, adorable Maxon, an uncertain and worried America, a self-assertive and sassy Celeste, a motherly Queen Amberly, a warm and fuzzy Kriss, a proper Elise, and a ditzy Natalie. And flowers, kissing, and romance, of course.


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection.**

**Can we all agree that Maxon is like the most perfect YA love interest ever made? And I mean that with the sincerest of words. He's wonderful and adorable and trying and thoughtful and Maxon needs a hug. You go, Maxon. :)**

Maxon didn't know the expectations that all the girls of the Selection had of him. He could only think of the usual: he was the prince, therefore he must be smart, kind, decisive, powerful, and an authority figure. He was a guy, which meant that he was tall, muscular, and overall good-looking. He was going to marry one of them, and thus must be a magician, pulling out romantic gestures and advances like tricks outta his sleeve.

Maxon was almost _none_ of these things, and that was why he was worried. Worried that he wouldn't be what the girls expected him to be.

Thus far, he'd narrowed down the girls to the Elite; he hadn't done the greatest job manipulating this situation he was stuck in to his advantage, according to his father. He wasn't 'trying hard enough'. Maxon felt the pressure of his father's piercing eyes, the cameras popping out of the woodwork to display the intimate details of his private life to the entire nation, and the expectations of the girls, who expected this 'Prince Charming', according to some trite phrase describing men like him from a book he'd read in his father's library.

Maxon was trying as hard as he could to please everyone. He went horseback riding with Kriss, complimented Elise's paintings, gave an attentive eye to the sexy curves Celeste owned and used to her advantage, spun interesting answers to vague, stupid questions Natalie asked him, and saved Marlee from certain death for America. Really, he was quite the romantic.

Nah, he wasn't. And he worried it wasn't enough. He was busy enough with writing reports, attending stat meetings, making TV appearances with a brilliant smile on the _Report_, getting in a workout to keep his muscles up-to-date, and running around the castle literally chasing bouncy skirts and clacking high heels. It ran down a guy, and now he worried he hadn't given enough attention to little romantic gestures that no doubt all five girls looked forward to.

Romantic gestures, romantic gestures, giving more attention to the girls competing to be his wife. He sat at a long conference table during a meeting concerning stats about the number of Southern rebels and a mission to take a census of them from their various nomadic camps. His elbow dug into the table and his head leaned against his cheek, making him appear inattentive and tired.

"Maxon," King Clarkson hissed.

Maxon looked up, startled. He was staring at a single red rose standing as the one centerpiece of the table. His eyes quickly flickered over to his father with the slightest of panic.

"While the lower provinces get destroyed, I'm sure they'll be pleased to learn that their future reigning monarch decided to instead take a nap," King Clarkson said harshly.

He didn't even try to disguise his disgust in front of the two obedient rows of advisers. Why should he? He was the king, and nobody was going to say a word to reprimand the man for yelling at his son. They instead pretended that this was perfectly normal and ignored it, busying themselves with their outlined reports and ballpoint pens.

Maxon's skin burned a delicate pink, but otherwise he didn't show how childish and embarrassed he felt when his father called him out.

"I'm sorry, Father. I was thinking," he said.

"I highly doubt you were thinking of how to exterminate the rebellion threatening to undermine our entire kingdom," King Clarkson said impatiently.

"I was rather occupied with how to woo a wife," Maxon said. He sighed and sat up straighter. "But that doesn't matter now."

King Clarkson rolled his eyes and set the ball rolling again. Maxon made an effort to appear interested in a matter he didn't have a hand in changing, as he often ached to do, but instead paid further thought to the rose. It stuck out, all red, delicate, single, thorny, and prickly, and standing tall in the slim glass vase. Like his America.

Was she even his America? Maxon sighed to himself. It felt like every week was a different story. They'd go days without talking, and then they'd be intimate and a few words away from being engaged.

Was she counting on romantic gestures to show his affection? Hadn't he been able to convince her of his love for her? But she was still stuck with an ex digging in her heart. Perhaps if he made another gesture, he'd destroy the thoughts of that ex and be the sole owner of her wonderfully fierce heart.

He had a bit of authority in this massive palace, didn't he? He could do some big romantic gesture.

He even smiled when his father called the meeting over and hadn't asked for a single word from his learning son.

* * *

Maxon approached Silvia in her office as several ladies' maids came filing out from a day's run down. He gave a courtesy knock on the half-opened door. "Might I come in?" he asked.

Silvia looked up past her black glasses on the tip of her nose and immediately stopped cleaning up her desk of papers. "Maxon," she said, straightening. "It's good to see you."

"You as well." Maxon decided to go past the formalities; after all, hadn't he known Silvia his entire life? "Silvia, I need your help with a project."

"What kind of project?" Not a hint of hesitation in her voice.

"One related to the Selection, rather than the country. I'd like to keep it a secret, especially from the girls, until it is accomplished," Maxon said.

Silvia nodded to the door. "Come in and sit down."

He did so and sat in the straight-backed chair, and felt like a man in a child's chair, all limbs and looking like a young boy. So it was surprising when he said quite bluntly, "Do the girls talk about me in the Women's Room, Silvia?"

Silvia's spine stiffened. The Women's Room was strictly off-limits to those not of the fairer sex, but, seeing as he was the sole heir of the throne of Illéa, and her words might benefit him in choosing the next princess, she leaned forward and relayed in secretive, crisp tones: "They don't talk with each other much, but when they do, it's about their chances with you. The throne. The press concerning the Selection. Their various romantic adventures with you." Silvia shook her head almost imperceivably. Clearly she wasn't comfortable with talking about silly teenage girl antics.

Maxon felt like laughing, but tactfully kept silent.

"They compare each other's various romantic endeavors with me? Goodness, I hope I haven't gained a reputation for repeating things with different girls," Maxon said. He hoped that just because he and Natalie watched the same movie as he and Celeste did didn't come back to the other girls.

Silvia's head bobbled. "They brag, mostly," she said. "They think they're the One."

"Well, that won't work out. There are five of them, too numerous to just be 'one'," Maxon joked to himself. He cleared his throat quickly though, at the stony face Silvia threw at him. She wasn't amused by his amusement. So he sprang into being businesslike Maxon. "I was thinking," he said, "I've been terribly busy of late, and neglecting all the girls. I'd like to make it up to them in a way, let them know that I'm not entirely ignoring them all."

"Just four of them?" Silvia let slip. Her eyes grew wide and she smacked a shaking palm against her shiny puce lips. "Oh goodness. I'm terribly sorry, Maxon."

Maxon gave his shoulders a shrug. "It's all right," he said. He knew his father and mother each figured out his particular favorite in the bunch: Father disapproved, and Mother tried to prove herself distant from his decision, but she couldn't hide her face-engulfing smile when she saw the two together. "Is it quite obvious, Silvia?" he whispered curiously.

Silvia, relieved that her breech of decorum was waved away by the young prince, gave him a quick but fervent nod. "To everyone in the palace. Except perhaps the other girls. I believe they've voluntarily decided to be oblivious to the fact."

Maxon sighed and nodded.

Silvia leaned a little more forward and said, "I know it isn't my place, Maxon, but might I ask a deeply personal question?"

Maxon felt overwhelmed by what people needed from him: his status, his words, his power, his life. But he nodded and said, "Yes, Silvia?"

Slight hesitation. Then a tone of utmost secrecy: "Why haven't you ended the Selection already? The entire staff knows whom you favor."

Maxon smiled, wistfully. "Eager to plan a wedding, Silvia?"

The woman, slightly taken back, blushed. But remained calm and cool.

Maxon sighed and divulged as much as he would let himself: "I have my reasons, Silvia. Questions that need answers, trust and devotion that must be tested." _And time for her ex's tentacles to let loose of her. _

"Is her devotion to someone other than you?" Silvia asked, shocked.

Maxon quickly shook his head to lie. The episode of Marlee Tames still hung heavy in everyone's minds. "No. Rather, I . . . I have some things to think about. With the other girls." A lie indeed. The other girls were a safety net if America couldn't be his. He hated himself for viewing them as that, but that was truly what they'd become.

Silvia took this answer and said, "What is your plan, Maxon?"

Maxon gave her a big grin that was known for setting many a girl swooning into a pile of overwhelmed female flesh and silky dress material. "I was thinking of a big romantic gesture," he said, excitement edging his voice. "And what, may I ask, is more romantic than flowers?"

* * *

A known rule in the palace: going outside on the grounds, in the gardens, and to the gate, unsupervised, was strictly forbidden. Everyone, especially America, knew that. She despised the rule, seeing as walking the grounds gave her fresh air, a sense of freedom, and a moment of Maxon's hoarded, doled-out time. Taking that option away from her left A), visiting with her maids and B), ignoring the other girls in the Women's Room, each lost in their own private, worry-ridden world.

Yet she couldn't help but notice Maxon darting out-of-doors every time she walked the halls of the palace. Rugged-looking, collar, tie, and sleeves askew, all tossed hair and hurried expression, she stopped him once: "Maxon?"

He stopped abruptly, his dark brown shoes' rubber soles screeching against the fine palace's tiled flooring. He faced her and immediately crossed over to her, catching her hands in his. "America," he said in a forced calm voice, "how are you?"

America, hesitant between choosing blunt questioning and going along with his small talk, said, "Fine." Quick subject change: "Where are you off to in such a hurry, Maxon?"

"Illéan things. Business and documents. Rebels and stuff," Maxon offered her quickly, trying to gently reassure her.

'Stuff.' That word caught at America. The fine-breed prince of Illéa just said _stuff_. Something was obviously up. "Are you okay, Maxon?" America wondered. She placed a palm on his forehead, checking for any signs of a disease overtaking the cognitive functions of the prince. "You don't have a fever. Are you sick? Is something wrong?"

Maxon was lost a moment in her touch against his heated skin, but he eagerly shook his head, anxious to run off to supervise his secret project. "I'm perfectly healthy, America. The slightest sign of illness, Doctor Ashlar is appointed to perform every single medical test known to mankind on me. I'm a precious national treasure. I take care of myself. I'm perfectly fine, America, but I thank you for your concern." He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, rushed and reassuring all at once, and then he broke off from her hands and ran bounding without another word 'round a corner of the hall and out of sight.

America, uncertain what his attitude told her, picked up her stupid, troublesome skirts and entered the double doors of the Women's Room. Queen Amberly sat in a corner, a bit of cross-stitching in her hands. Her skillful hands darted in and out of the canvas with a red-threaded needle. All about her her richly dressed ladies' maids bustled, quiet and graceful, at her service in the price of a second.

America's grey eyes looked about the room. Wide windows shined yellow panes of glass against the stark white floor, on which were several elegant but comfortable lounges, cushioned-settees, and regal sofa chairs. On one of these pale silver settees Celeste was draped, her legs exposed, her heavy makeup perfect, her gum smacking reverberating against the walls. Her mascara weighed down her eyelashes as she blinked repeatedly, her feigned interest in the gossip-y celebrity magazine clutched in her tight hands meant to show everyone around her she couldn't be bothered with them.

Kriss was seated appropriately in a sofa chair by a window, all skirts down and ankles crossed. The sunlight provided illumination upon her book of poems she held gently in her perfect hands. America was reassured that Maxon wasn't off on a romantic escapade with his new favorite.

Elise was caught half between a news story concerning relations with the New Asian government, a cause of worry for her place in the Selection, and applying watered-down red paint to a cherry blossom native to her ancestral country. The war wasn't swinging in her favor.

And lastly, Natalie was off drinking a crystalline cup full of pink liquid, with glassy eyes and glittery hair. America wasn't sure what she was up to, other than murmuring inaudible words to a gold vase.

America's search revealed the answer to her now relieved worries: All the girls, while lost in their own little worlds and self-centered, were all there and accounted for. Maxon wasn't rushing off to laugh and touch in a corner with one of these nervous biddies.

America turned 'bout and looked out the doors once more, confusion written over her face. Then, what was Maxon doing? If he'd been in a business meeting, as he was oft doing, he'd be trim, prim, and prompt, not like he worked outdoors.

Curiosity driving her to her room, America entered to find Lucy dusting with one of those inefficient puffy yet stringy dusters about the surfaces of her room, Anne poring stitches upon a few yards of silky fabric the color of the sky, and Mary muckin' about in the bathroom.

"It really is unpleasant to do this work," Mary was saying.

"The scullery maids are out of service cleaning up the first floor from the last rebel attack," Anne reminded her sternly. "You're lucky you weren't recruited to scrub off blood with pure elbow grease."

"Don't they have a cleaner for that instead of elbow grease?" America said, announcing her entrance.

All three heads jerked up, mouths open, agape. Except for Anne. Tight-lipped, she exchanged a quick look with Mary and Lucy, and the two girls fell to their jobs with a new fierce will.

"Don't worry about it, miss," Lucy squeaked quickly, her duster causing a flurry of dust mites in the bright Illéan sunshine.

"Is this what you guys do while I'm gone? Complain about things?" America wondered. Another thought conquered all the others in her head. "You don't complain about me, do you?" she asked cautiously.

Lucy shook her head mutely while Mary called from the bathroom, "Never, miss! Wouldn't think to!"

"Of course not, miss," Anne said, laying aside her dutiful work and walking up to America. She curtsied as she led the thoughtful America to her plush vanity seat and began to brush out her thick red hair. "Never."

America smiled wryly to herself. Why did she for a second worry? Her maids were her followers, loyal to a fault. She looked in the mirror, watching Anne purposely run the brush through her hair, and America caught her free hand and patted it against her shoulder. Anne stopped, alarmed, but the friendly smile America's reflection gave her put her at ease.

America divulged after a moment her worried thoughts. "Have any of you noticed how Maxon has been looking busy lately? He's been bedraggled and tired and rushed around everywhere."

Anne frowned. "I don't know, miss."

"There's no upcoming party or anythin'," Lucy pointed out.

Mary came out of the bathroom bearing a plastic bucket and a wet mop. "Maybe he's pacing the floor, anticipating and deliberating over another elimination." Mary sounded hesitant and worried to voice this idea. The effect of her words were obvious on America, who stopped breathing, it seemed, for a minute, before Lucy said strongly, "Not you, miss. He admires you so."

America was silent for the remaining duration of the impromptu beauty session, and once Anne respectfully stood back and mustered the girls into formation to clear up the bathroom and other cleaning supplies and the sewing materials, America stood up and took brisk steps to her balcony. She pulled at the rich burgundy-gold curtains, and they didn't move. Surprised, she tugged them back with all her strength, straining her arms and earning her a bit lip and then gritted teeth. But to no avail. The curtains, strange as it seemed, were locked up.

Anne, Mary, and Lucy walked quietly up to her. America stood back, gasping, and the four girls stood there, hazel-haired Anne, dark-haired Mary, blonde-haired Lucy, and fiery-haired America, four strong, solution-oriented women, taken aback by the idea of these curtains not opening at the commands of their arms.

Lucy stepped forward and tugged on the curtains. Nope, nothing.

"What on earth?" Anne murmured to herself.

At that moment there was a familiar knock on the door. Four heads swiveled to see the blond-haired prince peek his head through the door, a playful look on his face. "May I come in?" he asked. The amused look disappeared in an instant, being replaced by a horrified one. "What are you doing?"

"I can't open the curtains. Why not, Maxon?" America wondered.

Maxon pointed a finger at her. "There's a reason for that, but I shan't tell you why now: Just two things, America. Eh, three. One, good afternoon, ladies." He gave a half-bow to her maids, who blushed and bobbed their heads in respect. Maxon straightened and strode down the room until he and America faced each other. The maids quickly faded into the background, hands over their smiling lips. Maxon said, "And two, America"—his voice was soft and velvety, but turned firm—"don't try to pull open those curtains. All right?"

"Why not—?" America would've said more if Maxon hadn't dared to kiss her ever-so-quickly. Never had she not missed the sound of her own voice more.

"Trust me, all right?" He looked secretive and mischievous when he pulled back. He then tacked on, "That was a command. And now I ask ye of a request, fair lady?"

America, amused, said, "Let me first hear your honest plea before I grant it to ye."

"It's quite simple, the answer, Ames," he said. That nickname caught at America's heartstrings and played a soft, warm tune. He held her hands and asked her with all earnestness, "What is your favorite flower?"

America blinked and cocked her head, stray red hairs getting caught into her thick eyelashes. "Excuse me?" she asked.

"What"—he laughed lightly—"is your favorite flower?"

America, without even thinking through the various families of Kingdom Plantae, said bluntly, "Why do you want to know?"

"Ever heard of surprises, America?" Maxon teased.

"Roses," America whispered. She looked into his warm brown eyes and said with her eyes 'What's going on?'

"Excellent," Maxon said. He leapt away from her, gave an acknowledging nod to the busy maids, and slammed the door on his way out.

America stared at the silent door stupidly before somehow connecting the locked curtains, roses, and Maxon's bewildering behavior altogether. They were all pieces of a puzzle, part of a question, but what answer did they produce?

Her maids watched expectantly, and America brushed off the frustration and nervous energy she felt as she turned back to the ladies. Anne held up folds engulfing her arms. "Ready for your fitting?" she asked.

America nodded and undressed down to her slip for a fitting of a new dress for that Friday's upcoming _Report._ Her mind, however, wasn't there. It was far off, trying to decipher Maxon's secret.

* * *

America tried not to think about Maxon and his untold strange ways until one day she found him in the Women's Room conversing in intimate whispers with Elise. The red-haired girl stopped abruptly when she saw them, but when Celeste cast a 'jealous?' look at her, she quickly took a seat and shielded her face with a gossip magazine. Soap opera dramas lay before her and she couldn't follow a single sentence. The magazine went down when Maxon flew from the room, and she wondered how to best approach the subject of Maxon's surprising appearance in the women-exclusive room when Elise stood up, her back straight, her manner cool and collected, and asked around, "Has anyone—anyone else been asked by Maxon what their favorite flower is?"

The Queen wasn't there that first in the morning, so the girls weren't hesitant to answer. Celeste thrust her arm into the air and Natalie said, "Ohhhh, yes." Kriss nodded, blushing slightly, and America slowly raised her hand not past her head.

"It's so strange, but he must have a reason," Kriss said confidently.

America felt annoyed that Kriss seemed more assured than curious and alert.

"Didn't he, like, ask us simple questions like that when he first met everyone?" Natalie said. She cocked her head and said lightly, "I think he asked me, anyway. Did he forget?"

"Apparently," Celeste said. She checked out her nails and yawned. "According to him, we have the same favorite. Orchids," she informed smugly.

"I _love _peonies," Natalie said. It made sense. Peonies, pink and fluffy, ruffled like a skirt. Like Natalie.

"I love sunflowers. He said they're the color of my eyes," Kriss said, looking a little wistful.

Celeste rolled her eyes. "And as sunny as your personality," she said sarcastically.

"I said I like roses," America said automatically. It felt like a bit of camaraderie, each spilling a little bit of themselves.

"He saw my painting of cherry blossoms and guessed," Elise said. She wrung her hands silently and said, "Why is he doing this?"

Impulsively, America added, "My curtains are locked."

The girls all instantly stared at her. "My curtains aren't locked," Celeste asserted.

"How do you know? Did you pull them open?" America demanded.

Celeste gave her a fiery glare.

America gulped down a breath and started anew, calmly. "I think he's hiding something outside he doesn't want us to see."

"What? Outside?" Elise wondered.

"Why did he lock _your _curtains, though?" Kriss asked.

America bobbed her head and said slowly, "I like to go onto the balcony and look at the stars and the gardens."

"The gardens," Natalie whispered softly.

They all leapt to their feet. "He's got something in the gardens," Celeste said, sounding conspiratorial, "and he locked up her"—she pointed to America—"curtains because she's always out there. But I bet he hasn't locked up _my _curtains," she said firmly, smugly. "C'mon, let's go find out what he's hiding," and Celeste, arms pumping and determination driving her forward, led a mass exodus.

As far as the hallway, anyway, for once outside Kriss voiced her and America's unspoken concerns. "Wait! Celeste," Kriss said.

Celeste stopped abruptly, causing Natalie to bump into her and go "Oof!" and Elise to nearly fall over. Celeste bristled and turned on her three-inch red high heels and said, "What is it, princess?"

The irony and foreboding of her words gave Kriss a second to blunder before she said, "Maxon obviously wants to keep it a secret, or else he wouldn't go to the extreme of making sure America couldn't see it. I think he's making something for all of us in the gardens with our favorite flowers, and I don't want that surprise to be ruined for him by all of us."

"Come on, Kriss. Live a little. Lighten up, Miss Perfect. We can sneak a peek at Maxon's thing, quench our curiosity, and then gush or whatever when he finally grandly presents it," Celeste said. "So, if you decide to stay in that boring Women's Room, you can be a good little girl all by yourself, because at least _I _need a little excitement." Celeste waved a mocking wave at Kriss and then carried the procession up to her room.

But only ditsy Natalie and Elise followed her, Elise looking worried the entire time.

Leaving America and Kriss eyeing the floor, their hands, and each other.

"I'm guessing you don't agree with Celeste, then," Kriss said. "About learning the truth about something and then lying to Maxon about it."

America inhaled deeply and said, "I think anyone who agrees with Celeste is a little stupid."

Kriss laughed a little. "She isn't the best leader of those girls."

"Then she definitely shouldn't be leading our country," America said before she could filter the thought.

Kriss sighed and nodded. "I agree with you." Then she bobbed a nod and said, "Excuse me, America," and closed the doors to the Women's Room behind her.

* * *

America felt terribly curious and frantic as she paced halls. She daren't go into the Women's Room, where Celeste gave her smug looks and had little whispered conferences about the secret with Elise and Natalie, the most willing of her audience to gush about it. America wished desperately to have Marlee back; just someone to talk to who wasn't her maids, around whom she was hesitant to spill words concerning inner Selection details with.

She considered writing a letter to her father or May, but knew that that was stupid. This was a little, probably good project that Maxon was going to surprise her with. Nothing to worry about. Just something to occupy the whole of her mind and thought. That was all.

She also felt guilty for holding the information of the three girls having spoiled Maxon's surprise for them and not telling Maxon about it. Would it be seen as her trying to put the other girls in a bad light, or really just gently breaking the truth to Maxon about them so if he somehow found out that they hadn't been truly surprised by his secret, he wouldn't feel the brunt of their harsh behavior?

America's pacing indicated to her maids, who walked past her, not wanting to disturb her, the unrest in her mind. They pretended she was completely fine in order to not completely break decorum.

One evening, about two weeks after Maxon's mysterious haphazard impromptu disappearances, America stopped pacing and quickly, eagerly, plowed down stairs to the Women's Room. A thought had sparked in her mind as a solution for her worries.

The girls had formed their own personal habits and schedules throughout the days residing at the palace; America knew that after dinner Celeste went to experiment with makeup and yell at her maids, Kriss went to the library for hours of sitting alone and daydreaming about Maxon, Elise wrote down her thoughts in her prim handwriting in the solidarity of her bedroom, and Natalie blared bubble pop hits in the music room, dancing around like a half-crazed, tipsy ballerina all by herself. America, well, she'd usually play piano or read one of the diaries Maxon had generously provided for her, or she'd _go on her balcony and look out at the stars, sky, city, and gardens. _That option was obviously out of the question, now.

The Women's Room was thus then, mercifully, unoccupied by any of the Selected. Only the Queen sat in there, preferring to write her letters to her friends and international relations and allies in there rather than in the tiny confines of her designated office. When America peeked her head through the crack in the door, her curtain of hair hanging in a single sheet behind her, Queen Amberly looked up from her stationary and ballpoint pen. Soft orchestral music played over the speaker system, and quiet friendly bantering was being hit back and forth between the Queen's maids in a far corner.

"Come in, child," Queen Amberly said, straightening from her poring pen and extending a hand to a soft chair next to the table.

America gratefully sat in the soft cushion and sighed. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Amberly's face turned maternal and concerned as she took in the girl's anxiety-ridden pale face. "Whatever is the matter, dear? Are you ill? What seems to be the problem?"

Now that the time had come to spill her thoughts out to a second person, America felt quite silly. She looked at her perfectly manicured nails and viciously picked at them as a distraction as she scrambled for the right words. "Have you noticed anything strange with Maxon lately?" America asked quietly.

Amberly smiled, amused. A good sign, America decided. "I have. At the breakfast table, he is oft daydreaming, not paying attention to his delicious breakfast. I think I should ask the cooks to make his favorite waffles to entice him to eat, or else I believe he'll waste away and be blown off at the slightest of winds."

America laughed at this image and felt greatly relaxed.

"His father has as well. According to Clarkson, Maxon's attention span at the budget and strategy meetings is that of a sparrow."

"Why do you think he's like that?" America ventured carefully.

Amberly waved a hand and said, "Well, I believe my son is rather love-struck. And he can't contain it." Amberly gave her a warm smile.

"I've noticed that he's been off at random moments, not turning up for meals, and always looking like he was playing an exhausting game of tennis or something," America admitted.

"Ah," Amberly said, finally understanding. "You're wondering about his secret project."

"Yes," America said. "He's so secretive and frankly teasing about it, like he enjoys working on and knowing about something that I don't."

"Yet." Amberly added again, "Yet. He'll tell you soon."

"Do you know when 'soon' is?" America asked.

Amberly's smile contained too much secrecy for America's liking. Like son, like mother. She returned to her letter writing without any more commentary, and left America walking, dazed, to her bedroom, her questions still unanswered and her thirst for curiosity even stronger than ever.

* * *

Maxon raced around the backyard of his nationally-familiar childhood home with the steps of a light schoolboy. His blond-hair, soaked with sweat, was often ruffled by his frustrated, worried fingers, which needed a distraction from the problems brought to him by Silvia, the gardeners, and the contractors. Oftener than not he'd walk the maze of the palatial gardens, ideas pulling him which way and that. In moments of deep frustration and annoyance at himself for small mathematical errors, he'd loosen his tie and pull up his sleeves so he could cool down, and he'd take a silver pair of scissors hidden away in the palace's room for ceremonial objects reserved for cutting ribbons, and he'd hack away at a thick azalea bush on the grounds. The old green thing was overgrown, ignored by the normal rotation of gardeners as it was behind several heavily manicured bushes; it was perfect as being an object to receive Maxon's vented anger.

This project grew and grew each day. Time was taken from Maxon's already pressed free-time, and Silvia woke up earlier and earlier to get her own scheduled items down before she met up with Maxon for a session of overseeing and tweaking. More and more contractors were screened and called in; Maxon found himself surrounded by a squad of guards every time he stepped foot behind the palace's back door because of the rebels' threat. But despite the idea of rebels looming 'bout him unless he ended the Selection, Maxon pressed forward fearlessly; in fact, in rebellion to them.

The project still kept its secrecy from the girls; the guards, Silvia, the cooking and unloading-goods staff, and his parents knew all about it. And the advisers, who gave him hell about the budget. 'We're ordering a new warship to go against New Asia, and you've just spent fifteen hundred coin on a shipment of scented plants!' Maxon felt a bit guilty being so reckless in the use of his personal allowance (he'd been granted his own account at the age of fifteen, and never much spent any of it. Until now) but he also thought it arrogantly ignorant of the advisers to think of a warship over the starving Eights in his mother's home province.

Maxon didn't believe in socialism, but the gross difference between the layered levels of capitalism didn't sit in his stomach well either. He was still confused about the entire thing. Late nights he'd lay, arms and knees bent at angles, wearing cotton shorts and an open shirt, and bite the end of his ballpoint pen till it bled and probably gave him ink poisoning. For hours, even after long, prolonged budget meetings, half-moments interacting and wishing affection to his girls, and pouring sweat and muscle fatigue into his secret project, he'd be there, poring over thoughts about changing the caste system. Well, not change it, exactly. More like declare it dead and clean up its remains to leave nothing but cleanliness. He'd wish to speak to America about several ideas and ask her questions, but he daren't talk about such a rebellious plan with a girl who might not be his future wife.

That project was taking weeks, probably months and years, so he devoted more time and effort into _this _particular secret project. Earning harder, curvier muscles and a hard work ethic, the hours he slept he treasured, sleeping deeply instead of lightly, afraid of the slightest of noises banging around his room at night. Instead of becoming irritable from less sleep and more stuffed work hours, his smiles were heartier and readier at any given moment for any given person than they had since his quiet but relatively carefree childhood. He bewildered the girls, and treasured the instances when he caught them whispering excitedly near each other's ears behind shielding hands at mealtimes. Their curiosity only pushed him to work harder, faster, longer.

One night he came walking through the back door. His league of bodyguards dispersed, and he entered the gymnasium. Full of metal weights and pumping and rowing machines, he walked to his extensive locker and collected a towel and soap. He washed in the marble-cut bathroom and toweled off after a few moments of self-examination of his deep scars. He locked his jaw and sat on a bench in the gymnasium to rub warm, soft muscle relief medicine on his back. He groaned as he creaked like an eighty-year-old man. He grimaced and pulled on a white tank.

The door was slightly open, allowing in white moonlight and pale hallway. He heard the voices of joking guards passing by, on regular rotation. He knew they worked out in units, walked the grounds and floors at all hours, and roomed together near the kitchens. Their teasing words and light tones of voice made him feel deprived of something good. Male companionship wasn't available to him, as princes weren't shipped around with their parents on international visits; their daughters were, to be given in marriage. His father proved to be the least of his company, and otherwise he'd been—up until recently, when the influx of women astounded him (Illéa had this many young women? Where'd they been hiding?!)—cut off from relatively any companions around his age. The young staff didn't count. Their castes were too low to associate with his unless they were giving service to him.

He sighed and turning his head, caught sight of himself in his floor-length mirror. Its existence was there so he could make sure his form was correct without having to have someone else tell him from a secondary perspective. Look at him. The prince of Illéa (the World's Most Eligible Bachelor, according to _Twos _magazine), lonely. Longing for something as simple as someone to talk to. Those in the lowest of the castes got that. It was one of the only things in the world his money and status couldn't buy.

That and also love.

But Maxon hoped that he was on the road of earning it. He stood up and walked quietly up the stairs of several floors. There was an elevator at the end of the high-ceiling-ed hallways, but they were mostly for the elderly and wheelchair-bound.

He didn't go to the wing with the royal bedrooms. He took a sharp turn and instead meandered aimlessly down the hallways where the girls all lay beyond. And he found himself in the huge hallway, like a cathedral, with moonlight passing through windows (whose views were ever-so-conveniently cut off from the grounds by some widespread architecture), alone. He inhaled deeply and knocked his knuckles against the door. The noise reverberated through the hallway, and he waited. A few barefoot steps and a half-white face and dark, rich hair. "Maxon," she said. "It's late."

"I know," Maxon said, "but I had to see you."

"You smell like soap," America observed.

Maxon grinned as trails of water rushed down his neck. "Better that than sweat or another disgusting manly musk, though?"

"I've smelled a lot of things worse than manly musk," America reassured him. She cocked her head and said, "But I like soap better."

Maxon leaned into that doorway for a moment, all smiles and wistfulness. She smelled like her flowery, comforting bottle of scent. She looked so comforting, burden-relieving, and _whoa_: pretty amazing in that light nightgown. Angeles was a warm city, and everyone wore light clothing. Her feet were bare and a light violet bathrobe was over her shiny blue nightgown. He was a half-second away from catching the back of her neck, nestling his hand into the pillow of her soft hair, and demanding her lips against his until they couldn't breathe. But then he knew in the back of his mind they'd only be giving each other half-hearted kisses. Wasn't her heart still being pieced together? She still was trying to pry the jagged puzzle pieces from the hands of her ruthless ex. And he had the other girls he had warm feelings and slight affection for. Didn't do to put all his eggs in one basket.

But he wished they could. He wished they could kiss, and love, each other without other people's fingers digging into their arms and pulling them away.

Instead he framed her cheek in his tired hand. She leaned in and gave him this worried look he wished he could wipe clean from her face. He gave her the saddest of smiles, almost as if to say 'I know', and he said contentedly, "America, I have a surprise for you."

At the light in her eyes, he felt a monster for taking it away. "It's a surprise for all of the Selected. But you're going to be the first I'm going to show it to. I promise, America. You're the one I want to see the most when it's ready. I can't wait to see your eyes light up and glow with excitement, and . . ." he didn't continue, as that would tell her too many details, but he hoped his smile put to rest any lingering fears in her heart.

"Maxon," America sighed, "when?"

"Tomorrow," he whispered. She'd given him plenty of time to finish his masterpiece, like he'd given her plenty of time to pull herself together again to be with someone else, someone who would appreciate her for all she was worth. "You'll see it all tomorrow, okay?" His hand slipped away and he breathed deeply as he walked down the hallway.

"Maxon," America said, making him stop everything and look lovingly at her. She bit her lip and said, "Why are you in a tank walking the halls?"

"It's quiet," Maxon said lowly. "It makes you think, like how this big castle is going to be yours and you're going to be the master of it and the entire country in which you reside. It gives one a place to think."

A moment of silence passed. Then, "That doesn't explain the tank."

"That's obviously so you can admire the well-kept biceps of your monarch," Maxon said seriously.

"They are indeed handsome, Your Highness," America said, amused.

"You're just saying that because I'm your prince," Maxon joked.

"Maybe. I'd like to avoid getting caste-demoted for not properly praising our monarch," America said, far more serious than Maxon's love-tinted banter.

Maxon's feet sped him readily to her doorstep in a flash. His voice, hot and quick: "What was that, America? What have you heard?"

America opened and closed her mouth and looked immediately regretful. But she said, "I . . . I heard when . . . walking by the post office here in the palace, that caste-demoting letters were being sent out to families in the Southern provinces, families who had either withheld information about the rebels from your father, or were aiding and abetting them."

Maxon thought for a second. He bit his lip and shifted his feet, sighing. "America, you weren't supposed to see that."

"Why? Because it was delivered in a low manner and shouldn't have happened at all?"

"They were aiding and abetting people who are trying to _rebel _against my entire life, my father's. They're trying to tear down our country. I sure as hell know it's a broken country, America, all shambles and war in New Asia. But they shouldn't be trying to destroy and instigate a civil war here at home!" Maxon said firmly.

"They were demoted a caste, Maxon! What if they were a Seven? Eights are sure as hell living in hell," America said hotly back.

"It's harsh, America, but punishment has to be dealt to troublemakers," Maxon said.

_"Demoted a caste," _America seethed, "for not being little spies crawling to the king."

Maxon caught her flying activist fist and wouldn't loosen his grip on it. She struggled and looked up from his hand commanding her wrist to his stone-set face, with cold brown eyes. She was shocked by that. "That's crossing a line, America," Maxon said coolly. "Whether or not you agree with his methods or not, this is my father's palace; you are merely a guest in it. He is the king; I suggest you don't disrespect him." He released her and walked away, more hot and heated than he'd been when he'd come back inside the palace.

* * *

Maxon didn't appear at breakfast that morning. No one commented on his absence. The king and queen were too wrapped up in a whispered conversation between them. Celeste had manipulated the kitchens' ability to access any expensive and excess ingredient to get a vitamin protein smoothie. Kriss and Elise exchanged a look over their coffeecake and little sausage patties as Celeste sighed, moaned, and spanned her waist numerous times. Natalie ate fairy bites of fruit salad.

America either ate like a starved pig or a baby. This morning, she was more frustrated at herself than nervous, so hungry pig it was. She tucked away several pancakes, pieces of crispy, candied bacon, and chocolate-covered strawberries before Celeste, viewing her with wide eyes, said, "Wow, someone's hungry today."

America felt like biting back "Shut up, Celeste", but instead bit into a lovely bagel spread with fatty, creamy cheese.

Queen Amberly led the assembly to the Women's Room for a quick moment of repose before Silvia marched them off for history lessons and quizzes. America sat by a bunch of lovely, broad-leafed plants and hid her face behind her fingers.

Too soon. Too soon to criticize the government so harshly to its upcoming leader. America knew the caste system was wrong, and she knew Maxon wasn't truly defending _it_ as much as he was saying that punishment needed to be dealt with an objective hand to those who opposed the government. Still, _caste demotion. _For a simple mistake like being kind to someone or aiding a cause they believed in or simply keeping their mouths shut from speaking to the king, their entire lifestyles would be changed. _Three hundred _families_._

A little throat clearing at the doors to the Women's Room caused all heads to turn. Mary said, "Lady America, Prince Maxon would like to see you."

America scrambled to her feet and ignored the annoyed eye-roll of Celeste as she sped past her. She gave a grateful nod to Mary, who fought to keep up with her to the dining room, where Mary said he was.

Maxon immediately stood up from a chair. He wore a grey suit with a warm blue tie. His hair was tidy and brushed, and his manner professional and authoritative. He reminded America of _Report_-pre-Selection Maxon. The prince, not the boy who was given his first kiss by her. She ached for him, then, wanting to fill the breach they'd dug between them because of their different views of their society. Instead, she curtsied, Mary left with a nod of Maxon, and he said, "America."

"Maxon," America said quietly.

He offered her his arm and said, "I'd like to show you your surprise now."

America took his arm and met his eyes. She said in a controlled, even voice, "Lead the way."

Despite the change in his demeanor, America could see the peeks of her Maxon breaking through his princely persona. The light in his eyes when he threw open the door to the grounds, the little tilt of his mouth when he looked at her and said, "There are fifteen guards out there."

"I feel totally safe," America bantered.

He suppressed a smile (unsuccessfully, which he then covered with a rough, guttural throat clearing) and said, "Prepare to be amazed, my dear."

"Not that, Maxon," America said.

"Your slightest desire is mine to deliver," Maxon said as he led her down the path, all its stones melded together, to the grounds.

Her breath caught and she stopped short.

He'd made something so beautiful.

The grounds spanned a few acres, and whilst they'd been perfectly manicured and kept up when she and Maxon made their almost daily treks in the pre-rebel-threats-on-the-grounds days, they'd been traditional. Uninteresting. Beautiful, but dull, like a restored painting gifted from the Italians that'd been hundreds of years old. But Maxon had revamped it, twisted it with a modern sense of art, and put his own personal Illéan royal spin on it.

The gardens were ridged at the top, and the bunched green leaves were cut into intricate shapes, like the bushes were a wooden piece of furniture instead of foliage. The hedges ran down the length of the main aisle that ran down straight from the back door, and then off on each side left and right maze entrances were open, allowing one to get lost running down the paths hedged by beds of flowers. Statues of stony, serious thinkers stood on corners, but fountains of dainty faeries with water spewing from them and descending into a silvery pool underneath them that was also inlaid with detail-oriented carving added youth and fun.

Maxon stood off from America, at arm's length. His neck was bent and his smile on the side, for his head was cocked in order to see full view of her astounded face. She didn't say a word; speechless, she turned to Maxon, a gasp escaping her throat. She felt her ability to form any words right out stolen by him, especially with that mischievous, pleased look on his face.

"Shall we continue forward, my lady?" Maxon asked.

America dumbly nodded and he led her on. The distance between them decreased, to both of their reliefs. America could finally see why he wanted her out of the way and out of sight while he did this; each doorway off the main walkway down the length of the gardens to the forestry that America had run through led into a completely different section. She gasped when she saw a little perfectly elegant sign reading 'Clermont'. In it, she peeked in and saw extravagant, huge orchid plants. Stony benches set in intimate lounges, with striking colors, a little bar and table. A little setting for photo-shoots, a station to keep the camera equipment, and a changing room.

"Celeste," America said coldly.

"Yes," Maxon said unyieldingly. "I of course didn't discriminate against any of the girls. They're all Elite for a reason."

America decided to not take his bait to downplay Celeste, and instead looked him in the eye and said, surprised, "You made a section of the gardens devoted to every single province?"

"I did," Maxon said. He looked a little shy and a little proud all at the same time. "I catered personally to the five provinces from which the five Elite are in; Clermont, Bankston, Columbia, Carolina, and of course, Angeles, Elise's home province."

"She didn't have to go far," America mused.

"I heard a three-hour flight, actually. Angeles is the capital of Illéa, of course, and so accordingly is rather large," Maxon said. He took her hand then and sighed. "America, I know, and remember, your homesickness from the first night. I've heard about your excitement over your family's letters, and I'm sure Officer Leger, being from Carolina, is a bit of remedy for your most terrible disease."

America blushed at the mention of Aspen, but quickly reworked it to deter Maxon. "Maxon, don't tease me. It's a terrible condition," she said, dramatically laying her hand against her forehead.

"It's a sickness I know well. Trips outside our country, while few and far between, make me wish for home very dearly, though oftentimes I am more tired of it than in adoration of it," Maxon said. "But let me continue. I've produced a remedy—"

"You said that already," America pointed out.

Maxon scoffed lightly, making America laugh. "And I shall repeat myself if you keep cutting me off, America."

America bobbed a little and said softly, in a dainty lady voice, "I'm terribly sorry for my offense to you, Your Majesty. I beg for your merciful pardon."

Maxon tsked and said, "Only for your boldness and sincerity, miss, do I grant that to you." America laughed and that made him laugh a deep, hearty laugh as well.

"As I was saying before being _so _rudely interrupted," Maxon said teasingly, once he recovered his breath, "I've made up the Carolina section of the gardens not only with your favorite flower, roses, but also of any and probably all common Carolina plants, to remind you of home."

America felt tears in her eyes and she willingly let Maxon, who suppressed his excitement, take her down the wide aisle. They passed Angeles, which featured the warm-weather plants of the city and several New Asian elements, including running water over stones, a tea house, and red and gold lanterns with black scripted writing. Past Columbia, where sunflowers featured prominently. 'Like the color of her eyes,' America remembered jealously. She turned her head away, feeling slightly worried about Maxon's intimacy with Kriss. But then any and all worries were wiped away, even if only for a moment, from her mind.

Carolina was home. Pine needles littered the floor; dogwoods and redbud trees with their long branches reached out far, like hands. Ivy and Concord grape vines tangled over a gate that was a backdrop for roses. Tiny bushes, huge ones that dwarfed the azalea bushes, crimson red, velvety violet, soft pink, blindingly white, roses, roses, roses. Some were open wide, throwing themselves open to the world. Some were hidden by leaves, still thin and folded together, not quite ready to release their scent and folds to the world.

Monkey grass, imported daffodils, pansies in full bloom, ladyslipper, wake robin, Indian paintbrush, trillium, and bloodroot. Wreaths were made, and a heart vegetable garden. Pecan trees and peaches, growing in the abnormally warm weather. Reminiscent of Carolina summers, America felt like she'd stepped into her meager backyard. She almost saw a treehouse, but shook her head at the idea. Amazingly, Maxon caught her shaken head as her being overwhelmed.

She _was _overwhelmed. And amazed. Angry at herself for ever worrying and doubting him. She turned her face to him, tears running over, and he gently, with concentration, wiped them away with the bed of his thumb. His thumb ran down her cheek in a soft caress, and he gave her a hopeful look. "I do hope those are happy tears and not ones of overwhelming unhappiness," he joked.

"Maxon," America managed, "how could this not make me happy? How could _you _not make me happy?"

She hiccuped repeatedly as they sat on a low bench. He offered her a monogrammed handkerchief and after completely desecrating it with her salty tears and abundant snot, she said, "Well, I just destroyed the prince's personal property."

"Personal property that was gladly offered. I wouldn't say destroyed. Rather, put to good use," Maxon said warmly.

America spoke as she scrunched up the handkerchief between her fingers. "It's perfect, Maxon."

Maxon smiled, not at the moment ready to say in not a few words how much he wished to hear that. His fingers reached for the handkerchief, but instead they skipped to her right wrist. He frowned as his fingertips grazed over the identical pressed bruises on her skin. He withdrew his fingers with a gasped breath and said, staring at the bruises like a horror scene he couldn't tear his eyes away from, "I did that." He met her grey eyes. "_I _did that, America." He let her go and crouched over, his hands burying his face from view.

America examined the bruises. That morning she'd stumbled up a lie for her maids as to its origin. She breathed heavily and said, "Maxon . . ."

"It's my fault, my inflections on your skin, America, and nothing you can say can justify me physically harming you," Maxon breathed quickly.

"They'll fade," America whispered.

"But will the memory, _my _intentions to harm you? Will that memory fade, America?" Maxon said. He shook his head and moaned, "I'm so, so, so sorry . . ."

"Maxon . . ." America didn't know what to say.

He inhaled deeply and looked from the marks to her eyes. In his own, she saw a pain deeper than that of everything he'd shown her yet. It was frustration, him kicking himself in the butt; a look of horror and fear, a frantic sense of realization. "Will you forgive me, America?" he asked, his voice breaking.

"Yes," America said slowly. "But you can't do it ever again, not in a passionate fit of anger. Not again."

"I promise never. You must understand, America, it pains me as well when I see someone get punished for something I don't believe has as much weight to it as it is usually thought to have. I shouldn't have hurt you so," Maxon said.

"And I shouldn't be questioning your father's leadership with the castes." America sighed. "The caste system is so . . ."

"Manipulated? Unfair?" Maxon asked.

America nodded.

Maxon nodded as well. "I know. Limiting one to only a few jobs of similar talents seems a bit damning, limiting their abilities to do things." He sighed deeply and said, "America, could we please not talk about politics right now? It seems so professional and arrogant of me to slide so easily to it when I'm concerned about you."

"What are you concerned about?" America asked.

"I hurt you." Maxon stroked her wrist with the lightest and hottest of touches.

"And you're sorry. And you're trying your hardest to please all the Selected, and me." America smiled. "It's an amazing romantic gesture, Maxon, but the fact that you care so deeply . . . that means so much more."

Maxon picked up her hand and held its back against the warmth of his cheek. After a moment, he curved his head instead of daring to move her hurt wrist and kissed with the softest of kisses, like bestowing them on a baby's face, every bruise. America felt like melting under his touch right then.

And when the kisses were moved from her wrist to her nose, and her forehead, and her cheeks, and her eyelids, and finally right smack dab on her lips, hot and breath-taking and sending warmth as blush on her face and as excitement coursing through her body, America knew that that since he'd been forgiven by her, he'd finally decided to forgive himself.

**0.O. Well. I did _NOT _think that would turn into a 9,000 word+ story. Yeah, I literally thought I'd be done in 3,000 or so words. BUT IT NEEDED DEPTH AND DEVELOPMENT AND STUFF. XD**

**Thanks for reading! (Hooray for Maxmerica, or our lovely Mexican couple, as my friend calls them!) God bless you!**


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